


Minutes and Hours

by Chance_may_crown_me



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, John's Wedding, M/M, One Shot, Sad Sherlock, sad endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chance_may_crown_me/pseuds/Chance_may_crown_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock faces the choice between giving John his happiness or gratifying his own. With John's marriage approaching, it's time for Sherlock to make his choice. This is angst- central.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minutes and Hours

It had been 3 years, 26 days and 7 hours since Sherlock Holmes had come to the earth shattering realisation that he loved John Watson. To be precise, his world had been irrevocably changed; and the rest of the human race seemed to be coping just fine. The intervening 1, 839, 300 minutes had subsequently decimated Sherlock’s cautious hopes of John ever reciprocating his feelings. The nervous excitement and hidden meanings he had attributed to held glances and brushing hands in the early days had faded. It had been 9 months and 16 days since he could no longer kid himself that they were meant as anything but platonic. 

“Sir, your ticket please”

The practised cheerful tone of an overly made up air hostess brought Sherlock back from his sombre reverie. He was tempted to snap at her for disregarding his air of mourning, but necessity called and he sullenly handed her his ticket. The gruesome worm of her tongue swept across her painted lips in a gesture of appreciation as she noticed his face. Feeling disgusted, Sherlock snatched his ticket from the machine as it beeped and swept past her into the terminal. He could not comprehend the appeal of his looks. He was too skinny, too pale- besides the body was only a form of transport. John had been the first person to care for the intellect cloaked in the Belstaff; although none of that mattered now. Although brilliant and aware, John, like most men, had caved to the sweet smile of a pretty girl. He had bought his slavery with a gold band; the squealing ‘Yes!’ of Mary sealing his fate. The thought reviled Sherlock. How could his John be so foolish? Could he not see that domesticity would bring him no pleasure? He craved the thrill of the chase, and only Sherlock could provide him with that hit.

The arrival of the little ivory envelope, “Care of Sherlock Holmes: 221B Baker Street”, had seemed more like summons to the gallows than an invitation to the most joyous day of his best friends life. That was the sick joke of it. Under the kind guise of ‘best man’ and wearing the title of ‘best friend’, they would have Sherlock stand at the altar with his John; to formally witness the destruction of his every hope and happiness. If the loving couple wanted to devise a more painful strategy to hurt the Detective, they would have struggled to find one. As much as he hated Mary; loathing her for ensnaring John and consequently destroying Sherlock’s peace; the day meant something to the man he had vowed to always protect. If he went, he could not promise that the hurricane of his anguish would not follow. Warring with his rage was Sherlock’s desire that John be happy. If a big white wedding, country home and 2.5 kids would bring that to John, who was he to ruin it? Therefore the safest course of action had been a strategic retreat. To run and to never look back. 

Of course Mary had tried to stop him.

“You selfish prick, you’re going to run out on your best friend on the biggest day of his life?” 

She had come storming into 221B exactly 68 minutes after Sherlock had told John he would be absent for the wedding. 64 minutes after John had dejectedly left the flat for what was possibly the last time. The slump of his shoulders and his parting words ripping shreds into Sherlock’s heart, “Maybe you only have one friend after all. Yourself”. John had thought better of him, Sherlock had let him down, proven himself the monster. John was wrong. He didn’t know how much he had sacrificed, how much of his sanity he had lost in trying to be a good person. 

“I have work to do”

Sherlock had tersely replied as he threw belongings into a suitcase. Not knowing or caring what he was packing; just possessed by the need to escape- to leave the whole business behind. Plus if his hands were full he couldn’t strangle the entitled woman in front of him.

“Do you even have a heart?” Mary spat as Sherlock pushed past her to the front door.

It had been 3 years, 26 days and 7 hours since he had discovered the capabilities of the heart beyond pumping blood, and Sherlock wished that he had never understood the concept. That sentiment had never become entangled with anatomy. He wished that he could answer her with a cold “No” and mean it. The icy fingers tightening around the organ in question- always twisting and pulling- almost seemed to dare him to deny its existence.

The disgust in Mary’s gaze softened to something like pity when Sherlock’s gaze lowered to hers. She knew. The torment burning in his blue eyes could not be misconstrued or covered. Every pretence in his regards to John that Sherlock had built over the 1, 839, 300 minutes crumbled in a split second.

“I don’t like you and I don’t like your relationship with John, but he needs you to be there. Stay.”

Her voice wavered slightly on the last word. Her pain at having to validate her fiancé’s dependency on another man was clear. He had not thought it was possible to loathe himself anymore; but here was Mary once again finding ways to utterly break him. 

“I have work to do”

With that he slammed the door behind himself; closing off his view of Mary’s pitiful expression. He would not be viewed as a charity case, someone needing special treatment and attention simply because he had made the foolish mistake of giving another his heart. Instead he would run. He would move and leap and not slow down until the memories began to fade; until he could remember the kind smile and patient hands without the taint of despair. Someday he might return, perhaps watch the beaming couple with their angelic little darlings. Perhaps the children would be blessed with the same shining blue eyes. Sherlock choked down a sob; the future was not a place he wanted to visit.

Weariness and strain dragged at Sherlock’s body as he melted into the aeroplane seat. A cacophony of bleeping seat belt sounds and the whirring of the engine signalled the beginning of his escape. Sherlock closed his eyes and began the long process of sorting through his mind palace; banishing all thoughts of one John Watson to the deepest basement. 

He would leave, he would forget, he would let John be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at fan fiction. Any and all comments appreciated! If you notice any technical/ grammatical errors, let me know! I'm always looking to improve. I apologise for all the angst; its just an idea that hasn't left me alone!


End file.
